Winter Hawk

'Did he have anything the Americans might still want?'

'I don't know. I did it just for the money,' Orlov wailed; the final, complete answer.

'For your favorite charity, of course. Or the family,' Zhikin sneered. Again, Orlov did not turn his head.

Priabin said, in a not unkind voice, 'The Americans will not bother with him. But he may have travel documents, money, an escape route of his own?'

'I don't know, comrade Colonel, believe me, I don't know. I can only tell you that he seemed sure they could come.'

Then he won't be making his own way out, Priabin thought. He's waiting around — to get himself caught, he concluded with a firm, decisive pleasure.

'Viktor,' he said, looking up, 'take some of the men. Get over to Kedrov's flat and search it. Yes, I know it's been searched. Do it again, and thoroughly.'

'Sir.' Zhikin nodded, approving Priabin's conduct of the interrogation, and the order he had issued. Priabin felt a momentary resentment of the older man, his subordinate officer. It passed almost at once.

Zhikin left the kitchen. Priabin heard him barking into his walkie-talkie as he clacked down the linoleumed passageway. He heard the shop door slam, its bell jangling wildly like a warning. He felt hot, despite having removed his overcoat. Excitements and tensions jumped in his body like sparks, little muscular tics and spasms through his frame. Fear was present, the sense of danger, of a perilous course ahead of him. He was a frail canoe rushed forward by white water toward rapids, toward a narrow gap between high cliffs. He could easily be wrecked, drowned by events. But if he played quickly, decisively, with nerve, then—

— get Kedrov under lock and key, get Lightning out of him, get, get — out of here, back to Moscow — the conquering hero.

'OK, Orlov, get your coat.'

'What?'

'You're coming down to the office. You haven't even started yet.'

He looked at his desk, still flecked with drying spots of paint of various colors: a vile green, white naturally, pink, gray — presumably undercoat — yellow. A dot puzzle, in color, which, if the dots were joined, would reveal the features of Filip Kedrov, spy. Priabin sighed. They'd found the rolls of film in the garage, waterproofed and hidden in cans of paint. Quite clever. A few scraps of paper, notes of instruction and record, the camera inside the plastic frog, but hardly anything else.

Orlov had confirmed that Kedrov had delivered nothing to the Americans except his radio messages. No courier had been in the area since the transmitter had been delivered, he was certain of that. So he had expected the Americans to come, he had a photographic record for them. But would they come? Priabin shook his head. It was impossible to believe. What kind of rescue operation could they mount? And Kedrov had pressed the panic button only hours before. No. Kedrov was stranded inside Baikonur. But—

— where?

Priabin looked at the first of the hastily developed films. The prints were still sticky, too glossy, But everything was there. He had been a good agent — a complete photographic record, punctilious and exhaustive, of the last weeks of the laser weapon project. From the weapons arrival at Baikonur from Semipalatinsk, almost. The American espionage effort had been motivated by increasing desperation. Everything had depended on Kedrov.

He put down the prints, rubbing his tacky thumbs against his fingers. He might have to destroy at least some of the films — by the time he came to use them, the army would wonder how long he'd known, why he'd not informed them or acted sooner. Peril. The word rather than the sensation appeared in his head. Yes, perilous. But he sensed now he could win. Progress convinced him — these films, for one thing. He was getting somewhere, and quickly.

If, if he could win now, Rodin and Rodin's father would be powerless against him. Moscow Center would have its prodigal son back with open arms and the fatted calf. He might even be able to press a narcotics charge against young Rodin.

He grinned; swallowed at once as the sense of danger formed a dry lump in his throat. He essayed a laugh. The dog looked up from its position near the radiator, then settled once more, its shaggy red coat looking almost more ruglike than the rug near which it lay. He regarded the dog fondly for a moment, then swung his booted legs onto his desk, unmindful of the still-tacky prints and the spots of drying paint. He lit a cigarette. He'd be back in Moscow, all right, just as soon as he dug up Kedrov. Moscow Center s gratitude for giving the army the shaft, in Baikonur, would be boundless. He could become the youngest general in the service! He'd get Kedrov straight onto a special flight, as soon as he caught him. Yes, he felt confidence now, a new undented confidence. He'd find the son of a bitch, and soon.

Priabin stared absently at the Party photographs on the opposite wall while he luxuriated in his thoughts and the cigarette. Grim, unsmiling faces they might be, but they no longer disapproved of or suspected him. They were faces he had somehow outwitted, like the cleverest but most disliked boy in his class.

So, he thought eventually, stubbing out the remainder of the cigarette, sitting upright at his desk now, why persist with Lightning? At least, why draw attention to it by sending Viktor after Rodin's latest boyfriend, a queer actor? Perhaps he had been foolish there — young Rodin would certainly get to hear about it, might blab to Daddy? Mm. Perhaps it was a mistake; precipitous.

The telephone rang. He snatched it up, as if it might be someone with the authority, the cunning, to scotch his dreams.

'Yes?'

'Viktor, sir.'

'Oh, yes, Viktor. What is it? Look, I've changed my mind—

'I'm at the theater, sir.' There was an excitement in Zhikin's normally bluff, unmoved voice. 'He knows, all right. Says he doesn't know anything except the word, but there's more to it than that.'

'LightningP'

'Yes, sir. Lightning. He nearly went berserk when I dropped the word out. He's had something whispered in his ear, all right, and by young Rodin.'

'Bring him in, Viktor. Bring him in.' Forget your change of mind, Dmitri, he told himself. What a stroke of luck. 'He won't be hard to frighten — he's a civilian and a queer!'

'He phoned, sir — caught him ringing someone while he pretended he wanted the bog. I didn't realize they had a phone in there.'

'Who did he call? Rodin?'

'He's not saying, but that's my bet.'

'OK, charge him now — with sodomy. Get him down here right away. Once he's in here on a criminal charge, Rodin won't be able to get to him. We'll have everything he knows in a couple of shakes.'

'Got you, sir — with you in, oh, half an hour. I'll come the roundabout route, just to make sure he's not spotted.'

'Good man. When you bring him in, have a real go at him. Play the nice guy. I'll be with our friend Orlov after lunch. I'll join you in your office when I've finished with him.'

Priabin put down the telephone. Stretched his legs and inspected his boots. Tiny spots of paint had adhered to their shiny surfaces. He stood up, stretching luxuriously. Danger tingled, but it was only one element in his excitement. The dog stirred at his approach. He soothed it back to sleep, looking fondly at its gray muzzle. Then he returned to his desk.

He began scribbling questions he would press on Orlov — and questions, too, for the little queer after Viktor had played the nice guy with him. He shook his head, smiling. His was the heavy's part. As easy as opening a can of — worms?

'I'm coming with you.'

'All the way?' Gant replied, smiling sarcastically.

'Just as far as Peshawar.'

'Just to make sure we don't turn around at the border?'

'I do what the man says, Gant, just like you.' Anders sighed. 'OK, let's move it.'

Anders looked at his watch. Midnight. The repairs to the Mil-24A were completed, had been tested. Satisfactory. Forty-eight hours maximum, from now. The mission clock was running. Gant could have Kedrov out and safe by early Wednesday, Washington time. Time? It had to be enough.